Bugger
by O.bi.Sess
Summary: What if Dumbledore was wrong and Neville was the real Boy Who Lived? A more humourous look at how the Final Battle, capital letters and all, would've gone down. Oheshot. Parody.


_**Summary:** What if Dumbledore was wrong and Neville was the real Boy-Who-Lived? A more humourous look at how the "Final Battle" (capital letters and all) would've gone down. _

_**Disclaimer:** Nope, not mine. _

_**Author's Notes:** This idea just popped into my head one day and refused to leave. So, enjoy!_

_Oh, and DON'T take it seriously. Some of things in there might be a bit weird and implausible, but seriously folks, DON'T overreact as this isn't meant to be technically correct. _

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Harry had been prepared for this since he was eleven.

Facing the monster that killed his parents, the black haired boy couldn't quite wipe the look of utter hatred off his face.

For seven long years he had searched high and low for the Horcruxes and it was barely a week ago that he had destroyed the last one.

Out of the all the places, it had been hidden in a teddy bear.

In a toy shop.

In Germany.

Apparently Tom Riddle, when he was on an outing with the Hogwarts in his Third Year, had visited the shop and fallen in love with the bear at first sight.

Something about being deprived as a child and desperately wanting a friend he could curl up with at night, etc., etc.

Harry had been rather disturbed to find out the location of the last Horcrux and had been dry heaving, therefore completely missing the rest of the story.

Harry Potter's eye twitched at the mere memory of trying to wrestle the beloved toy from its five year old admirer's grasps.

And they said taking candy from a baby was easy.

Yeah. _Right. _

Whoever came up with that saying surely had not met Miss-I'm-a-mutant-five-year-old-who-can-punch-really-_really_-hard.

Harry still had the bruise to prove it.

To top it all off, the shop owner had cast such a disapproving look at Harry that the twenty-three year old rather felt like the dirt on the shoes of lowest scumbag on Earth.

Scratch that, Harry had felt like the dirt on the shoes of the lowest scumbag in the _universe._

Lucius Malfoy in other words.

Either way, when Harry had finally managed to take the toy from the girl, a rather large crowd had gathered, needless to say.

And they were casting the looks the shop owner was giving Harry.

"Oh bloody hell," Harry had whispered to himself, feeling a rather nasty migraine coming on. He _so_ did not need this right now.

Throwing a handful of euros at the shop owner (and feeling for sure that he had paid at least ten times what the actual toy was worth), Harry rushed out of the shop, trying to find a dark alley to apparate the hell out of there.

So now, second last fragment of Voldemort's soul destroyed, Harry was finally ready to face his destiny and kill the thing that had killed his parents.

"You are _so_ going down _bia-tch_," Harry muttered, green fires all but spitting fire.

Voldemort smirked, raising his wand also.

The Final Battle had been a long and bloody one. Countless people on both sides had lost their lives and all for this moment.

A hushed silence fell over the battlefield as friend and foe alike turned to watch the Last Great Battle.

And would've been treated to some great entertainment and spell slinging if someone hadn't tried to apparate in at that moment.

A loud crack sounded throughout the field, the indicator that someone had apparated in.

And apparate in they did.

Unfortunately, they apparated right on top of Voldemort.

The poor soul.

Harry's eyes widened in horror as he recognised the chubby form of Neville Longbottom.

Rushing towards his friend, Harry pleaded with every fibre of his being that Neville was alright.

"Pleasepleasepleaseplease," Harry whispered to himself, his voice breaking the stunned silence.

"What the fu-"

"Did you see th-"

"I can't bel-"

Neville groaned and sat up, rubbing his head and his rather sore backside.

Whatever he had landed on was so.. angular and, for lack of better words, _ bony_.

Oh, if only Neville knew how right he was.

"Neville!"

The brunette's head snapped up as he heard his friend's panicked shout.

"Harry," he sighed in relief. "Hermione wanted me to tell you that... what? What's the matt-"

Neville was at that moment bowled over by Harry as the black haired boy dove into him and rolled away from Voldemort's prone body.

Neville turned whiter than a sheet as he took in who, exactly, he had landed on.

Poor Neville. He was never the best with apparation and this fact couldn't be more highlighted than with him landing smack, bang on top of the darkest wizard to ever grace the face of the Earth.

"Oh my God! I- I just lan-landed on top...on top o-of..." Neville trailed off, apparently his brain not able to process who had acted as a cushion to break his fall.

Nothing moved for a full minute after his mini-breakdown.

Harry steeled himself and waited for Voldemort to blow his top.

But he never did.

Moving cautiously towards the older wizard, Harry nudged the body with his foot.

Voldemort still didn't stir.

And that's when Harry saw it.

The weird and impossible angle Voldemort's neck was.

Eyes widening again, Harry's mouth dropped open.

In all respects, it looked as if Neville had somehow managed to break Voldemort's neck when he landed on him.

Although, being sat on by a slightly overweight twenty-three year male tends to do that to most people.

"Y-you.. you k-killed... You did it Neville!"

The poor man jumped at the ecstatic note in Harry's voice.

"W-wha?"

"You killed him Neville! You killed Voldemort!"

Neville's head was still swimming as Harry dove for him again, catching him a hug that made his ribs complain.

"R-really?"

Harry still hadn't noticed Neville's slightly blue face due to the lack of oxygen.

"It was you! The one in prophecy was you! It was always you!"

"O-oh."

"Thank you Neville! Thank you so much!"

Neville briefly wondered why the hero of the wizarding world was thanking him.

Then the events of the past five minutes sunk in.

Harry Potter had made it no secret that he hated all the fame he had. He had also made it incessantly clear that he sometimes wished that it was Neville who was the Boy-Who-Lived.

Having been told of why his parents were tortured to insanity, for Harry had felt it was his right to know, Neville had made it incessantly clear that he was overjoyed that he _wasn't_ the Boy-Who-Lived, thank you very much.

But now, looking at Harry's delighted face, Neville couldn't help by curse the skies.

For now, after twenty-three years of mistakes and hero-worshipping the wrong guy, the real Boy-Who-Lived rose to the occasion and defeated the greatest evil.

Neville sighed in agitation, but hugged Harry back when the young man squeezed the life out of him again.

Neville Longbottom, the _real_ Boy-Who-Lived.

Bugger.

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_**Author's Note: **Well, there it is! Hope you liked it. _


End file.
